So, while I was waiting for Tina to get around this morning, I had the girls strapped into their stroller and was teaching them to rock out. Anya, of course, was more than happy to wave her arms and bounce around, but Rachel gave me a skeptical stare before breaking down and joining the fun.

Later, as I was rolling into daycare, I spied an unusual sight. There were dads everywhere, stuffed in powder blue shirts, fingers hoisting college rings bigger than golf balls. It was bizarre. Most mornings, it’s just the moms and me. The dads all looked terribly uncomfortable, but were probably guilted into showing up by their wives so they could socialize together at the daycare’s annual Father’s Day celebration. Of course, I have nothing but contempt for all the fair weather fathers and their serious business attire, whose last appearance at the child development center was most likely during the Christmas pagent. They’re all so serious, so important and so old. I may be 31, but most of my “peers” are probably in their mid-to-late forties. Any one of them could have fathered me. All right, I know I’m exagerrating, but it’ s almost that bad.

The funny thing is, they never quite know what to say to me, the guy with the beard and the jeans and the twins. There’s always an awkward hello, but I’m clearly not their equal, someone worth shooting the proverbial shit with. That’s the thing that gets me — that either I’m treated like I’m a teenage father, or they ignore me entirely. In reality, I’m a lot more interesting than the lot of them. They should be begging me for my time. I know none of them were trying to teach their children the phrase “Devil Music” this morning.

I can’t wait to see what happens when the playdates start.